Lyrics
by Aunt Ginny Potter
Summary: Music can let you know many things. It can empower you, make you hate. And if it chooses to, it can describe those moments where the words just fit. You only have to think up the right type. But the right one has the tendency to tell you secrets you didn't know you had. Every moment has a song, and sometimes... you want to find it.
1. So Far Gone

**A\N: Yes, I'm getting into songfic-ing (do not tell me that word doesn't exist). My mood is so inclined. Either way, I'd really love it if you guys gave me ideas of songs I could use (and, if you want, the theme) because I found that writing this is really loads of fun. :)**

**They will all be really short, but that means I'll post multiple ones at a time. This time, two of them. Might be TIVA, might not (those who've read something I wrote before will know that there's a very good chance that the 'not' is more than a little laughable).**

**Well, that's about it, because I don't think I'm feeling up to any more amount of rambling (and also because it'd be kind of embarrassing to have an A\N bigger than the chapter itself).**

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own NCIS.**

* * *

"_So Far Gone" – James Blunt_

Tony sat, and he watched.

She had that half-smile on her face, the one that drove him crazy. She drove, jumping curbs, ignoring honking, shifting the gear and turning the wheel with the smirking smugness of the self-assured woman she was.

Don't ask him why he'd let her drive. He didn't know. But keeping his eyes on her upturned lips wasn't looking like such a bad idea.

He was so damn gone by then. There was no going back, and it terrified him that that didn't terrify him (not anymore, anyway). There were too many questions. Why her? Why him? Why _this_?

No clue.

But she was his, and, as much as it bit at him to admit it, he was hers. He took her for granted (_that_, he freely admitted). That had been painfully (literally) clear when she'd stayed behind, left, or told him to go away. (Which time, you ask? All of them.)

But she was there now. (Was she? Tony couldn't be sure. Maybe it was a delusion. Maybe it was _all _a delusion. Had anyone ever proved to him that she, them, this, existed?) There with her almost casual disregard for their safety, stepping on it to the full extent of the phrase, and Tony had never felt more settled (besides the nausea and the urge to flee at a moment's notice).

McGee ignored the two of them when Tony took Ziva's hand in his.


	2. Stay The Night

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own NCIS.**

* * *

"_Stay The Night" – James Blunt_

They twirled. Or, rather, Tony twirled her, and his smirk prompted her to as well.

They were smooth, enough that the people around them were giving them a wide berth with knowing (in their opinions) smiles. Tony thought they knew nothing. Tony was right.

Heavy breathing, sweat, dark and almost blind grins. She was hot and tiny against him, like a bird, feathers fluttering around him in its restlessness. Only the bird was Ziva and the feathers was a far too low-cut dress that was exactly as revealing as Tony wanted it.

Gibbs was watching, but Tony was feeling bold, and he couldn't tell if there was an inch or half-an-inch between him and Ziva anymore. His murmurs were unintelligible, and there was a daft, nagging part of his brain that reminded him that this was an undercover mission which he was supposed to be paying attention to (that was working out well).

Her hips were rubbing, rotating, and she drove him mad. His arms were around her waist (didn't remember since when), his hair was scratching her forehead, his cheeks were flushed, and so were hers (he could see that with the sudden flashes that only served to pump his adrenaline). They were away in their own world, so far away from real (for which Gibbs would surely kill them later), and he was enjoying it.

He spun her again, but this time he spotted their target, and it was over, way too soon. Longing looks, Gibbs' accusing gaze, McGee's wide-eyed expression – maybe they should've been less conspicuous.

He let go of her hand, but kept its heat, kept its touch, and he murmured to her again (her lips twitched in affirmative amusement), because tonight she wasn't going home after all.


	3. Last Christmas

**A\N: Christmassy long drabbles, because I (and the rest of the world) am in the mood. :D Merry Christmas! And do tell me if you want me to make one of these with a song of your choosing!**

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own NCIS.**

* * *

"_Last Christmas" – Wham!_

Tony stared at the piece of paper, so damn insignificant to the world, and marveled at the contrastingly force (like a punch to the gut) it had on him.

Maybe it was the holidays, maybe it was the case, _because she should have been there and wasn't_, and maybe it was because he was already drunk off his ass. But the Paris background was _real_, and _she_, she was real too. Only back then she had been real _by his side_ (and her haircut was different, he supposed, though, really, all he cared about that was that it shined like Ziva, and it was long, long enough for him to bury his hands in it).

And he wanted real again. He wanted Paris back, and Berlin, and God-knew how many more things and places and times that were forever tainted with _Ziva, Ziva, Ziva_. How pathetic was this?

He used to fly so high. Be so great. Wished for the world and thought he deserved it. She'd given him the classic waking-up slap. And now, now he just wanted her here, with him, this Christmas, tomorrow, yesterday, anytime soon would be wonderful. His measly wish was something most would patronize and pity him for, because _poor chap_.

He liked that picture, he decided (on a random subject change). Of course, that needed to be said, because he hadn't said and shown it before (no, never ever). Jamaica? Awesome. If only he wasn't lying on his bed, alone (of course), and wishing for something that he wasn't gonna get. He figured he didn't deserve the classification of pathetic anymore.

His fist tightened on the picture. _She _had taken off! _She _had left him behind! It wasn't for him to get dealt the bad hand (except, obviously, that it was). And now he was arguing with himself. Or maybe he was arguing with the empty bottle next to him.

He wondered if this was how Gibbs felt, all the time. Except for all the self-restraint it required to respect her choice, because Gibbs had nothing to respect. Gibbs only had to deal with the fact that he'd had rotten luck. Tony chuckled. He chuckled because this whole situation wasn't funny at all, but he didn't feel like crying.

He wondered where she was. Somewhere, healing, he assumed (hoped). He wondered if she would forget all about him and them, back at NCIS. He had a sudden vision of passing her on the street and of her looking at a shopping window or her phone to avoid his eyes. (He actually passed psych evals? _Really_? Gibbs must really train him exceptionally well.)

It was Christmas, and Tony was alone, gaze focused enough just to stare at the most self-tormenting picture he could find.

All he wanted was Ziva. The liquor told him so, anyway. Speaking of which, he needed to find some more.

He hadn't been like this a few hours ago, had he? No, joking (in that polite manner people do when they don't even know the other person) with Bishop, dying children, Abby's cookies. He'd wanted a treat to get better, but, apparently, travelling was a Ziva-taboo. She'd gotten Berlin, Paris, DC, Israel, Somalia, and so many other places, and that had now transferred to travelling in global? Unfair, in his opinion. And when had his opinion counted?

There was the pesky picture again. His vision became tunneled, because all he could see was that little square, rectangle, whatever, and all he could see was her smile, and the wind pulling on her curls, and her eyes, and the darkness that was just a little drop from tipping over the cauldron, that would make her leave not two years later. _Unfair, unfair, unfair._

He'd wanted the sun, because she was the cold. As much as she was running from him, he was running from her too. Because she needed to settle her fight with herself, and he needed to settle his fight with her actions on his life.

He'd tried so hard, _so hard_, not to think of her, not to indulge his self-pitying reveries, and yet here he was, without words that could describe it, and _look_, self-pity to sell. _Out of hand_. Yes it was.

A year ago, he'd had no troubles, and, funnily enough, that was about the last time he'd be like that for months and months on end. And now, now she'd left, and he'd stayed behind with the memories of all the things they hadn't gotten to do.

A year ago, she'd been with him.

A year ago, his smiles weren't forced.

A year ago, he had his best friend.

A year ago, her father wasn't dead.

A year ago, a lot of things were different.

And he was dwelling on those things, because if there was one thing he wasn't capable of, was letting go of the past.


	4. All I Want For Christmas Is You

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own NCIS.**

* * *

"_All I want for Christmas is You" – Mariah Carey_

Tony was fidgety. And he knew Gibbs and McGee (maybe Bishop too) had noticed. But his eyes were too wide, his hopes too high, for him to care right then. (And he was going to regret that, he just knew it; life was crap and then you died, and _ain't that the truth_, and he never got lucky once to get lucky twice – he'd met her after all, and that was fortune enough for his karma to have to balance it _somehow_, and that _somehow_ had been Ziva taking off).

He was almost furiously pushing his nose to the screen of his computer, because _it was so damn slow_, and there was an e-mail from Ziva, and he wanted to _see it_. _Now_.

Two years, and she decided to suddenly contact him then? Why? What was going on in that pretty head of hers? _Oh, jeez. _He needed to get a grip.

One click, and _finally_, finally he could open the damn thing.

And he froze. Because, surely, this had to be a hallucination (he'd thought he was done with those).

_Christ._

He didn't even check his watch before jumping out of his chair and grabbing anything that was within hand-reach.

"_DiNozzo!_" Gibbs barked, half incredulous, half amused when Tony bolted out of the bullpen while leaving a trail of personal possessions in his wake, and not even bothering to turn off the screen of his computer, much less the computer itself. But, to his shock, it was pointless and much too late, because Tony had already vanished behind the metal doors of the elevator.

They were left standing, a little disoriented by what had just happened, because Gibbs really doubted that Tony had finished his paperwork already. He glanced at his watch. Half past nine. _And then again…_

Narrowing his eyes, he stood up and made his way to the senior agent's desk. And it took him no more than an exhaled sigh and a second to figure out Tony's behavior.

'_DCA, 10:12 PM. Don't be late._

"_There is just one thing I need". I like this song._

_Ziva.'_

"Where did Tony go, Boss?" McGee asked curiously, recovered from the scene.

Gibbs turned the computer off and made his way to his desk again. "Went to pick up his Christmas gift."

And, of course, McGee was just left to shrug it off with Bishop, because, if he'd learned one thing over the course of the eleven years he'd spent with Tony and Gibbs (and didn't he feel old) was that DiNozzo's behavior was invariably wildly random, and the Boss' explanations were that too, double as much.

* * *

The crowd of people was indecent, because Tony really just wanted to get a hold of her, bind her and keep her safely hidden in his apartment. He couldn't decide if that was kinky or just illegal.

He pushed back men, women, men who looked like women (after a while, he just wasn't sure anymore, nor did he particularly care), to get to the right gate.

And she was there, smiling, and he was glad, because, after two years, he'd kill to see that smile again, and he didn't want to be in jail when she finally came home (and he'd still have to see if she was actually coming home).

Hand-shake was awkwardly impersonal (at least for the two of them), hugging was expected, kissing was a pleasant surprise. They did all of them.

And soon they were back at his apartment (where else), and he was sleeping after being properly tired, and her hand was in his and it was warm again (because _she_ was warm again), and that meant, like she explained, that she didn't have to travel to heat up anymore.

And that was good, because he had what he wanted, this Christmas, and he disliked giving gifts back.


	5. Butterfly Kisses

**A\N: I kinda got a little misty-eyed writing this. I love kids, and this particular storyline was always really, really sad to me. :) Anyway, it's Gibbs this time! And barely any undertone of TIVA, so, you know, I'm slipping. :D**

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own NCIS.**

* * *

"_Butterfly Kisses" – Bob Carlisle_

He missed her. So much.

He remembered waking up to little feet stomping on the wooden floor, because it was Christmas, and she couldn't possibly wait for the sun to rise. Remembered flailing little arms, remembered shrieking laughter, remembered pink, always pink, but what Gibbs _couldn't _remember was where the strength to wake up every day came from, nowadays.

Red-hair, grin as bright as the sun, missing teeth, tears, pouts, tantrums, where had all that gone? His little girl, his daughter, where had she gone? What had he done that was so terrible, that he'd been given the most precious thing there could ever be, and then have it taken away, like someone up there was mocking him, smirking, because _enjoy it while it lasts_.

So sweet, so innocent, so caring, so _good_, _so God-forsaken young_, so unlike him - she was everything _positive_ he could drudge up within himself and offer her. Everything that he had long forgotten.

The house was silent now. Bikes, old cups, all that served as a mark that she had been there. '_Kelly was here'_ (because she had, she had been there, once, in warmer days). He had the little cup she had written that on, which Shannon had scolded her over, and now Gibbs was _so damn grateful _that it was still here.

She'd been there, she'd existed, Gibbs had done something to be proud of one day, and the pink, it was still everywhere, because _she_ was the pink, and everything else in his life was black.

He'd never get to see her turn into the woman she should have. Never see the pink evolve, never see it brighten, never see it again. He'd loved her so much. He still did. And it was so painful to think about her, even for a second, but then, it was plainly excruciating not to. She was his baby girl, until she wasn't anymore.

He'd never get to see her struggle when life got too hard (it always did that), he'd never get to help her with her problems and fix it all, he'd never get to be told about her wins, her losses, her happiness or her sorrows. He'd never get to watch her fall in love, and then take care of whoever was responsible for that. Never get to play the scary dad, and then get ducked over the head by the scarier daughter.

He'd always tried to be her knight, protecting her from everything and everyone, and, in the end, he'd failed so much, in so little time. She was gone, she was going to stay gone, and there wasn't anything he could do about it. But he still struggled to.

And then there was Kate, and Ziva, and Abby. They were (or, in some cases, had been, because failure was a consistent presence in his life) little girls too. And most of the time they needed him the way Kelly had needed him. And it was like a list: he was failing them, one by one, until he'd failed them all.

Kelly – failed.

Kate – failed.

Ziva – failed (how many times? Ari, Tony, Israel, Tony, Michael, Tony, Somalia, Tony, Vance, Tony, Ray, Tony, Eli, Tony, Israel again, Tony, and a lot of others that were too many for him to properly count. And Tony. And _she_ was still standing).

Abby – well, she was the only one missing, but Gibbs was sure he'd find a way to not be there when she needed him to as well.

And they were all Kelly, all of them, smiling and crying and needing hugs and comfort, and they kept leaving, one by one. They kept being taken away too.

In his nightmares, he saw, again and again and again, Kate's smile as a bullet left a hole in her forehead and their lives, and Kelly's tear-streaked face even as she waved with a smile, the last time he saw his baby, and Ziva's pained eyes that were there (always there) for weeks before she got up and left and took DiNozzo's smile with her. And the hurt and sobs in Ziva's voice, the laughter in Kate's, the resignation in Kelly's. All his worst nightmares, lately crumpled into one.

And then there were the scenes that had never actually happened, the product of his battered brain to torture him some more. All of them, one by one, over and over again, back turned, twisting their heads with a last smile, and walking away into the dark. Sometimes they screamed (Ziva especially). But they always smiled. They always smiled before disappearing.

Again. Again. Again, and again, and again, and again, until his bed and his pillow became, in his wild mind, the source of his problems.

He was supposed to know them and protect them, help them, because who else was going to? Besides Kelly, all of them were hurt enough that they couldn't even help _themselves_. That was what he was there for. His job. And he was, judging from experience, terrible at it. And maybe he was terrible because, when they needed him, he let them come to him instead of the other way around – or maybe none of it was even his fault, and it was a product of coincidences and bad luck that made it all end the way it had ended for those girls. (If only he believed in coincidences and luck.)

And he missed them, all of them, every day, but nothing could compare to Kelly. Because he had watched her come to the world, he had watched her give her first steps, watched her say 'daddy' for the first time. And she was gone, and gone with her were all the memories of better times that hurt so much he couldn't keep the tears in, sometimes.

He fingered the name, _Kelly_, on that cup, that _pink _cup. He missed her (them, because suddenly Kelly was their incarnation, or the other way around, Gibbs wasn't sure; all he knew was that he missed her, missed them, and it hurt, and he was tired of pain). He wanted some better times so badly he choked up sometimes, and he should know better than to be stuck in the past.

But there was still all the faded pink, and he couldn't, _wouldn't_,forget.


	6. A Drop in The Ocean

**A\N: This one's for WolfReinMoon, who suggested the song. :D And Merry Christmas, because I'm feeling in the spirit!**

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own NCIS.**

* * *

"_A Drop in the Ocean" – Ron Pope_

Coming home was painful.

More painful than he had expected. And that was dumb. So dumb. Of course it hurt. What did he expect? Sunshine?

It was night.

Puppies?

In an airport? No. He was all alone.

Rainbows?

Night again. It wasn't even raining, no matter the humidity in the air that promised it.

Unicorns?

Someone's been reading too many fairytales.

And all that because he wanted to cry but the tears were stubborn, and they didn't want to come.

And what had always been his answer to tears? Stupid jokes.

Maybe that wouldn't change. It would be one of the few things that wouldn't. Because she was gone, and he wasn't supposed to stay the same. Nothing was.

And there it was. It was completely over. It hadn't felt that way, not until he felt the cold _American _concrete under his feet. This was home, right? (Didn't feel like it.) He had always been prone to _denial_.

He was hanging by his hands in a parking garage, a million years before, but he wouldn't die, because McGee would come for the save and Ziva had the driver responsible at gun-point.

He was tied to a chair, staring at the knife a madman was holding while his only backup was walking to her certain death, but he was gonna be okay, because Gibbs and Ziva were coming, and he was strong enough to take care of the madman by himself.

He was trapped inside a metal box, freezing cold, and there were men outside who were going to kill him, but he was gonna walk away with a scratch on his shoulder and a bruised ego because Ziva was there, and Gibbs and McGee were coming.

Ziva was taken by a serial killer, and they had no idea where she was, and _it was different for some of them_, but it was going to be okay, because he and Ray and Gibbs and lots of other people he didn't care about were going to get her.

He was in a desert with only Gibbs and McGee with him, and he was taunting and provoking his future murderer, and this time, this time, he wasn't going to be okay, because Ziva wasn't there, Ziva wasn't there, and the denial was gone because he wanted to die.

And then Ziva was right in front of him, and he was going to be just fine, because she had an arm over his shoulder, and Gibbs had killed her murderer, and she was weak, and she was coming home.

(In all those occasions, Ziva was the common factor.)

And denial was his friend, and he was denial's friend, but it left him when he needed it. Because Kate wasn't fine (denial hadn't worked there), and Jenny wasn't fine either (denial was slipping), and Mike wasn't okay, and Jeanne and E.J. and Ray weren't there. And Roy and Michael were gone too. Denial didn't work always, for him or for Ziva.

And, of course: it had failed just now. Otherwise, Ziva wouldn't have been left with tears on her face in that Tarmac with promises of what would probably never be. First of all, if denial hadn't failed, he'd never have allowed tears near her cheeks. He'd have kissed them away until she gave a sobbed chuckle, he'd have brushed them away with his thumbs until she looked at him with those warm (because warm meant dry) eyes that shouldn't, according to his book, look at anyone but him. Or he'd have cried too, until her tears were driven away by his own.

And the common element to all those possibilities was that those tears would go _away_.

And, secondly, if denial hadn't failed, she'd have been there, right there next to him, close, too close to him, murmuring about home and secrets, secrets he knew, secrets she would elaborate on when they were alone, together and feverish, and when they were in his apartment. Her hand would have been in his, she'd have been fine, without the darkness and the cold that wouldn't let her eyes warm the way he wanted them to.

And he'd prayed before, but he wasn't praying now, because praying was worse than not asking for something. Because if he wished, there was a possibility that his prayers would be answered. And disappointment and denial and optimism hurt more, so much more, than pessimism and expecting always the bad outcome.

If he had been optimistic, he'd have hoped, expected, that they'd end up together. And… where would all that longing and hoping have left him now? Now, alone, as he walked (rather aimlessly, even though he _did _have the aim of getting out of that airport) further and further away from her?

But he had. He had been optimistic once. That man that had expected her, and McGee, and Gibbs, to come help him when he was in no shape to do it himself, he'd been optimistic.

But now she was half-a-world away (he would know – he'd just travelled the distance, had just left her there) and he couldn't be optimistic. Because she was too far away for him to expect her to help him when he needed her to help. And besides, what did denial want with him? Him (they) were close to nothing, in a world so big that, unless fate was on their side, there were zero to no odds they'd find each other again. And, if they didn't matter, why did it hurt so much? Exactly because he _didn't _have fate on his side. Of course not.

So he wasn't that man. Now he was another one, the one that had expected death in Somalia, because he didn't want to expect life. But now, he didn't want to expect being away from her, so he expected to feel like a part of him was missing.

He wasn't optimistic any longer. Optimistic people read fairytales. He didn't have children to read fairytales to. And he had a nasty feeling that the one person whom he would have remotely bared to create a proper family with was the one who was so messed up with herself she'd needed to get away.

So yes. Someone (someone like him) had been reading too many fairytales. And now he wasn't anymore.

But, standing in that cold night (and it was raining now), alone, a plane in the background, and no Ziva by his side, he wished (oh God, how he wished) that he had a fairytale of his own.


	7. Chasing Cars

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own NCIS.**

* * *

"_Chasing Cars" – Snow Patrol_

He knew it would eventually (hopefully) come to this.

Every waking moment, he'd dreamed of another way, another choice he could have made. Another thing he could have done better, always better, because there couldn't possibly be anything worse than her leaving.

She'd walked away and he'd let her, because the timing was all wrong and their feelings were all right. It was probably the one good thing he'd done. No, he didn't regret that choice. He regretted the ones that had preceded it.

_If you love me, you'll let me go._

What was that supposed to mean, anyway? He didn't want to be selfish, but the problem with that was that he didn't want to be so selfless either. He didn't want her to go, _he didn't want her to go._ But _she_ did. And to hell with him and his thoughts and greedy sinful secret wishes, everything he did was to make sure she got what she wanted. He'd go against himself and easily win if that was what it took.

And it could hurt. _He_ could hurt. And, if Tony went against Tony, he could hurt _himself_. But that was okay. So long as it didn't hurt _her_.

He remembered all these things they'd done together, all those alien smiles that struggled to be defensive and failed, all that laughter that could hide ever so well deeper meanings in daring words, and that stung, because he wasn't sure he'd get to do them again.

But he had been able to do patience (which was a first in itself). It was hard and he'd struggled with it, but he'd succeeded. But not anymore. He couldn't. He felt like he'd reached the edge of his cup. Like her absence was water and the cup was his ability not to be restless.

But Tony didn't want her to be anything short of fully content with herself, because he couldn't take a repeat dose of what he'd had when she'd stayed behind in Israel. In movies, there was always that moment when all the hardship the hero had gone through paid off. When the coin flipped, the luck changed and all the bad guys dropped dead. Very unreal, he knew. But he wanted one too.

He'd always compared it to climbing a mountain. The top was that tipping moment, when he got to enjoy all his work – every cut in his hands and feet, every drop of sweat and blood, every ragged breath and cold burn – in a long and happy and smooth and comfortable slide downhill, until he could relax, warm and dry, at the bottom. He wanted to have that happy ending. But she'd left, and for a long time, settling down had no longer been a foreseeable option.

And it still wasn't.

It wasn't going to be a happy ending until he could see a mass of brown curls in the middle of all those heads that had annoyingly chosen today to arrive at the same airport as her.

And he thought he could wait a little more.

Just until she smiled her smile right in front of him, and then, only _then_, he could relax like the mountain climber.

He knew it would eventually come to this.


	8. 1973

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own NCIS.**

* * *

"_1973" – James Blunt_

Lonely nights when he didn't want to reach for his '_Kelly and Shannon' _bourbon had him thinking of her and regrets.

These thoughts had hit him before, but he guessed that three years of working together after God-knew how many years of no contact (sometimes he wondered if it wasn't time to hand over the reins to DiNozzo) left her as more of a presence in his mind. Not to forget her death, of course. The fault of which he could be attributed.

He could see the next years rolling by and he could see her sticking to his mind still. Every bitter word he wanted to take back, every prideful action he wished hadn't even entered his mind in the first place, ran, back and forth, _back and forth_, in his mind.

So they had Paris, and not (much) else. He liked to think that, sometimes, they had also had a look or a touch or a particularly (and purposeful and pointed) insinuating comment or a private code forged in late nights when they were alone.

It had seemed like a cycle (and a vicious one, at that). They couldn't break free but they couldn't (or maybe they didn't exactly want to) get out either. So maybe it was more of a circumference. The main point was that it was immutable. And the only thing that ever changed about it was the perspective.

Gibbs knew himself well enough to know that this was nostalgia, and that he was particularly prone to it. He thought of all of them, not just Jenny, but he couldn't do all at once, because _God forbid_. But today it was her. And tomorrow he didn't know. Tomorrow was still tomorrow, until it would be yesterday and it would be over, and that's how Gibbs made it all less painful.

He had enough mistakes in his past for them to be able to pop up daily.

He wished them all back (_sometimes _and _in different doses_) so that he could make them right, even if sometimes he thought that wrong was right and he just ought to keep still. Jenny, Shannon and Kelly were the only ones that he never had a doubt about – they were his doubtlessly wrong mistakes. Or rather, their fates were. Besides being his fault, of course.

Those were the things he wanted to make right, and Jenny was clearly the most glaring fault. With his daughter, one could argue that he had no way of knowing they'd witness a murder, but Jenny had knowingly walked to her own death meaning to protect him. There was no doubt there.

He missed their innuendo wars and back-and-forth comments that left him with a smile on his face, because _she_ _was funny_. His hand had hovered one last time over the face of his partner he'd once (and more than once) been in love with, and he recalled that, at that moment, his thoughts had strayed to Tony and Ziva. But he'd balked, because he hadn't wanted to give himself an even bigger headache.

And he knew that she and they and everyone he'd managed to fail were going to stay with him. They were always going to be his ghosts, some more literally than others.

And he'd see them. Every time he walked into a memory.

Ghosts, dancing around in more oblivious times.


	9. You and Me

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own NCIS.**

* * *

"_You and Me" – Lifehouse_

Sometimes, Tony thought there were just the two of them in the room, the country, the planet.

It wasn't as if he forgot about everyone else. He knew they were there. It was just that, suddenly, their existence was really, _really_, unimportant, negligible. Because there were warm chocolate brown eyes begging his attention, his _full _attention, and when had he _ever _been able to deny Ziva's demands?

And, really, it would be insulting, practically outraging, to dismiss eyes like that. Who would possibly ever do something like that? When she smiled at him, made eye contact, let her eyes rest on his (and rest was very unrestful; whenever he engaged Ziva in a staring contest – or as McGee liked to call it, eye-sex – he felt anything but rested), there was really no meaning to his actions. And who could blame him?

If Tony was able to ignore the weight her beauty had in his holding gaze, he could say that it would still happen. There was something more than that, something more in the way he couldn't break free of the staring contest.

So, if it happened to happen, he'd be the last one to complain or cut it short before its (already too small) natural fade. And these looks didn't occur randomly. He couldn't have them (they were all he had with her, funnily enough) anytime he so wished. No, it was harder than that – she'd be in a mood, he'd be in a mood, and someone would say something that would crash those moods together and make it one shared bubble of intimacy that the two of them were happy to indulge. In the meantime, somewhere far away and far unimportant, McGee would release a silent half-groan, half-sigh.

And then they'd be in their very own private world, strung around by their silent communications, hindered only by the limitations of what their eyes could express. And that wasn't much, so Tony was comfortable enough. So long as looks were sufficient to quench his increasingly complicated feelings, he needn't worry. She'd be there. And so would he.

He had faith in that. He had faith in her continuity.

And, maybe, of that belief, he had too much.


	10. I Can't Hate You Anymore

**A\N: Let's say that this, the next chapter and the chapter after that are a three-part, shall we? I like this (imaginary) scene a lot, so I had to do it from three points of view, and we start with Ziva, then Gibbs, then Tony. But the songs are different, so – three chapters.**

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own NCIS.**

* * *

"_I Can't Hate You Anymore" – Nick Lachey_

_**I (ZIVA)**_

"So," He commented, and it was almost like an angel speaking to her, except for the cracked fear in his cracked voice, but, _damn_, he was there, wasn't he? But she kept her eyes closed, because she couldn't, she _wouldn't_, look at him, because her chest was heaving too much already, and _she didn't want to sob_, she wanted to _hit something_. "this is probably it."

She didn't want to hit something, she wanted to hit _him_.

She snapped her eyesight into use again, and her wide eyes turned wildly to his dirt-covered face, because _he _couldn't be the one giving up. His eyes were closed, and there was an unusual moistness in the corner of his eyes, and that was strange, because there was no water anywhere near them.

She slapped him.

He just raised an eyebrow and rubbed his cheek and pretended he wasn't as scared as her and a little more.

And now she was the one hiding tears, because _yeah, this was it_, and there were too many things still standing behind her in her path that she'd wanted to go back and fix. But there it had never been the right moment, there had never been the opportunity, and the _I'll have time to do it later_ suddenly lost the _later _and she didn't have time to do it at all.

Most of all, the biggest regret she hadn't collected was right next to her, in that empty metal box they were never ever getting out of, and she was still refusing to take care of it while she could. Instead of saying all the things she sometimes indulged on imagining, on preparing even though she knew herself and knew she was too much of a coward to ever do it, she was going into hysterics and letting him take the consequences of it.

"I'm sorry." She tried not to choke out, and she wasn't sure how much she was sorry for, but it wasn't only the slap. And she hoped it was enough, because she was sure she wouldn't have time for anything else and this was the last thing she wanted to be doing with Tony.

He shook his head and offered a hand and she took it without the hesitation that would have been present any other time.

"What would Gibbs say?" He mock-scolded her gently. And she didn't want him to be gentle. Since when was she some fragile damsel in distress?

Since she burst into tears at the mention of someone she wouldn't get to see again.

Tony's hand pressed her own with a welcoming strength. "You never have to apologize to me."

"There isn't going to be a never anymore." She bit back, willing her tears to draw back with the use of some harsh reality she was in dire need of.

"There's at least going to be a next few minutes." He muttered, obviously not particularly heartened by her words.

"_And how would you like those to be?_" She hissed, and this was it. She had broken. Broken enough by their imminent death that the protection of her feelings was suddenly no longer important. They were a breath away from not mattering for anything or anyone.

The metal above them creaked and hissed and she knew, she just knew, that it was time. Their suspect was going to crush it, make it into an unrecognizable tiny compact piece of scrap metal that he would throw into the deep, deep ocean, never to be seen again unless a nosy diver took a forbidden look. And then, if they were lucky, other agents would investigate their deaths, and if _those _agents were unlucky, they'd end up in exactly the same position Tony and Ziva were now.

Ziva felt bad for wishing that, someday, someone would find out what had happened to the two of them, like every other couple that the suspect had targeted and killed for his own sick purposes, and she felt bad for wishing that one day they would mourn their lost chance just as she and Tony and Gibbs and McGee had mourned their victims', even though if it had been up to the two of them, there never would have been a chance either way.

She got rid of all her decency and all sense of pride right then. With a choked whimper, Tony's chest became her sanctuary, and he whispered words that he seemed to know instinctively would calm her down, even though she'd always been the strong one, the one who would never break down, never need comforting, in front of pretty much anyone, much less her partner.

But it was cold and he was warm and they were going to die crushed to death and she wanted to be close to him when that happened.

"I wish-" She croaked out. "I wish I had had more time."

"Time's tricky." He murmured into her hair, and their last grave shook. His hands tightened. "You don't get a lot of it, but whatever you can get, you would worship it if you could."

She looked up and forced the tears down. "The things you worship have a tendency to let you down."

There was no light, but she knew his face like the back of her hand and knowing every single detail of it was a small feat. The wisps of sunrays that sneaked through occasional holes in the metal allowed her to see the grime and the dust and the cracked lips and every scratch from their fight with the serial killer. His hair was dirty, disheveled and hid much of his forehead because it was damp, so she pushed it away, driven by whatever it was that also drove Tony to regularly have these gestures with her.

His lips were so close to her that she could see him speaking even in the almost total darkness. "Then you have to question whether those things are worth worshipping and fighting for."

His breath made her dizzy and made her forget the increasing noise outside that meant they had to be seconds away from having their bodies crushed to a bloody mess. "You are."

She didn't let him process that properly (or at all) before she kissed him, and she kissed him like she wasn't going to kiss him ever again, because she very possibly wasn't, and this, if she had _any say in it_, was going to be the _very last thing she was going to do_.

And there was loud screeching around them and the air was feeling more compact, but Ziva just squeezed her eyes harder, held Tony tighter while he turned her away from the source and secured her better, and _she didn't hear it, she didn't hear it, she didn't hear it_.

_She didn't feel it._


	11. Welcome to the Black Parade

**A\N: Let's say that this, the previous chapter and the next one are a three-part, shall we? This one is from Gibbs' point of view, and the last one was from Ziva's.**

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own NCIS.**

* * *

"_Welcome to the Black Parade" – My Chemical Romance_

_**II (Gibbs)**_

Gibbs wasn't one to say _It's over. I've given up. It's too late. Forget it. Accept it. Move on._

Never had he done such a thing.

But now he was ordering a stricken McGee away from his computer, and he was telling him to clean up all the take-away food and all the empty coffee cups and to go home, because _It's over. It's someone else's case now. It's too late. Too late. Move on. Forget it. Move on. It'll get easier. Move on. It's time to grieve. Move on. It's normal to feel angry. Move on. It's just how you cope. Move on. You'll accept it one day. Move on. Move on. Move on. Move on._

_They're gone_.

_Move on._

And as he watched McGee's shaking hands do all he had said and more, as he watched him pause by his empty teammates' desks and pretend not to burst into tears before walking past without a word, Gibbs had never felt so disgusted with himself.

Oh, yes, this time he'd done it. Besides losing Tony and Ziva (which he'd only known about when he'd frantically called McGee in the middle of the night with the warning that both their phones were disconnected, and then found their doors wide open for everyone to see the blood and the complete mess inside the apartments), he'd now officially ceased looking for them. Forced the unwilling McGee, who'd undoubtedly continue his search from home, away from his computer, and dropped his entire useless weight into his chair, and that was how he sat, because it was over.

This wasn't like when they'd gotten themselves trapped inside a container. No, back _then_ it wasn't premeditated. This time Gibbs had the sheet of the poorly veiled death threat to his agents as proof that this was plainly crystal clear retaliation for the damn investigation. It was the only reason he'd found out about their kidnapping this early in the first place. Their suspect was snugly and smugly confident he wouldn't be found.

So was Gibbs.

He had an unquenchable urge to pick it up and rip it to tiny little shreds, evidence or not, as if it were the cause of all his troubles. But the paper was with Abby, downstairs in the lab. Instead, some important piece of red-tape lost its life, and Gibbs was sullenly reminded that he still had to go tell the furiously determined forensic scientist to stop and go home. None of that, _none of that_, made him feel anywhere close to better. It had been a completely pointless endeavor. Just like their tireless search of their missing coworkers.

But he didn't move. He didn't have the heart (or the emotional stability) right now to go give her the news. He couldn't be a rock and let her hug him, and he couldn't be comforting and let her cry and bawl and sob into his chest, and he couldn't be the voice of reason and let her scream against the unfairness and _I can still find them in time_.

But she couldn't. Twenty-four hours. In the sheet that had been slipped under Gibbs' bedroom door, those two numbers (two and four, two and four, Gibbs was sure he'd be dreaming about that for a long time) were written in the biggest size possible, just to taunt him. And taunting him they were. Very well too.

That was all the time Tony and Ziva had. All the time every other victim had had.

And it would be over in the next ten minutes.

Gibbs' mind strayed away. Every other serial killer they'd taken down – P2P, the woman with the toe-eating husband – it had never come to this. _He _had never let it come to this. His head hit his hands, and he struggled to breathe without spilling anything but carbon dioxide.

He could see in his mind, very well, Ziva narrowing her eyes at Tony, who had decided to be purposefully annoying just so he could get a reaction out of her, just so he could have her attention. He could also see the amusement she tried to hide (mostly for Gibbs' benefit) as she doused a peculiarly chosen area of Tony's pants in (mildly) scolding coffee, and he could see Tony's wide eyes as he hurried with dramatized cries to the bathroom. Only then would Ziva burst into poorly contained giggling, and Gibbs would pretend not to see a thing.

He could remember, on top of all that, every single look those two exchanged, but no, not ever again, because, _again_, Gibbs had managed to fail, and they had been funny, but never again, and now he had the Director of Mossad (and he hoped that, for the duration of that conversation, he would turn into Ziva's father instead) and Senior to answer to. And none of this line of thinking was helping.

He abruptly shoved the desk forward and the chair back, and he decided that a phone-call to Abby would have to suffice, because _no way he had the ability to handle someone else's sorrow right now._

And _damn this_, damn _everything_, because there was one bastard that had to hope he never _ever _came within the reach of Gibbs' hands, and what that bastard was currently doing was the reason for that.

This was the problem. _This_, right there, because he'd never let it go. He'd never move on, never forget, never cope or accept. He'd hunt him down like a dog with a prey, and it would be worse than Ari, because Kate had been two years, and that had been enough, but it had been twelve years with Tony and eight with Ziva, and if the way he was murdering the elevator button and gripping his coat was any indicator, his resolution with their killer wouldn't be pretty.

And his phone ringing was startling, because Gibbs had fire roaring in his ears, and, from the way his face burned, his head, and he had been driving worse than Ziva – _"__She almost killed my entire team yesterday." "How?" "Driving home from a crime scene." _- and he almost missed it.

He slammed on the breaks and did some questionable parking before he barked a would-be-greeting into it.

Then froze.

He hung up without a word and reared the car back in a way not even his badge would excuse him from, and suddenly, despite his strange tunnel vision, he was able to breathe properly.

And drive faster when he did.


	12. If You Give Up Now

**A\N: Let's say that this, the previous chapter and the chapter before that are a three-part, shall we? The first one was from Ziva's point of view, the second from Gibbs', this one is from Tony's. And then a little Gibbs in the end, but that's not particularly important.**

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own NCIS.**

* * *

"_If You Give Up Now" – Hands On Approach_

_**III (TONY)**_

How many times had they gone through this? For how many years had they been partners? How many times had fear overtaken them, and how many times had they had each other's backs and pushed that fear aside and moved on?

It stood to reason that this was just going to be one more time that Tony and Ziva, or to anyone else in the house, _I've never seen a pair of partners with such a need to do it already!_, would prevail and move on and laugh it off and forgive and forget. (At least his optimistic self said so. His rational self was trying to tell him about the complete and total lack of any possible escape plan, because _no one_, and literally _no one_, knew where they were, where they had been going, or, for Heaven's sake, that they were even _missing_. It was the middle of the night, and even Gibbs would be asleep, an- _LALALALALALALA_, sang the optimistic self, and the logic moodily shut up).

But, still, while they'd eventually get over this (of course), it was never fun in the mean-time. And Ziva was way past freaking out.

And, also still, while his inner coping mechanism was joking around like there was no tomorrow (and who guaranteed there was?), maybe he was getting to the freaking out stage as well.

Because he was cracking the wrong cracks at the wrong moments, and Ziva was, besides past freaking, also past simple tears, and _he just wanted her to be okay_, and he wasn't able to do that properly at all. But he wouldn't give up. Not on her. Everything but that. Every time they'd had together, even if it hadn't been all he'd hoped for, counted for something. And he wasn't willing to hand that over so easily.

So he still tried, still took her hand, still hoped to make her warm and make her forget that they were never getting to tell each other what it was that they were tired of pretending, and that _yes, he did think about soul mates_, all the time, _all the time he was with her_.

And, yes, before it was asked, it _did _occur to him that he still had time, still could, even if rushed, tell her about all the things he wanted to tell her, but, _but_, when had they (Tony and Ziva, Ziva and Tony) ever made things easier for themselves?

So he kept silent, but that didn't work for her. No, his little assassin ninja that he'd likely never see again after this (while hope is the last, one's optimistic self is first to die), _she _was the one that threw _easy _to the winds, and he went right along with her.

And when the noise came, when that sound that warned them of their impending doom, and Ziva exhaled that little unconscious whimper against him and ignored it in favor of keeping up the feverish attack on his lips, he followed her lead and focused on her too. Right after he managed to stand up and take her with him and make his back face the danger while his arms tightened around Ziva (he was unfair with his body parts, but so was life with everything else).

He didn't want to think about the fact that he was about to be turned into the human equivalent of the product of a junk yard. He didn't want to think that maybe, with a little effort, he could have had what he had right at that moment for a lot longer than he was going to. He wanted to think about what she'd said to him, and he wanted to feel delighted that she had, and not depressed that she never would again. He wanted to think about Ziva, and Ziva alone. So he did.

And he braced himself. That was all he could do.

* * *

Tony watched the sun rise with the trepidation proper of someone who hadn't slept all night and had every intention of ignoring that it was now day and not the time for rest.

He looked away to a far more welcoming sight.

"You did say something about worshipping me?"

Underneath the blanket, similar to the one he was wearing himself, Ziva pulled a face at her partner.

As if sensing danger, Gibbs' gaze switched from Ducky, zipping up their suspect's body-bag (McGee with the save, indeed – God bless him and his perseverant heart, because, without his call to Gibbs and lonely venture into the sight he'd tracked the killer to, there was no way his two coworkers would still be alive), to Tony and Ziva, with a warning look that was lost on the sappy staring match the glaring had turned into.

Their boss only hoped the two of them didn't have enough time to get to love declarations until Gibbs had been able to interrupt their intimacy inside the metal box, which was now evidence of a kidnapping charge and of something soon to be forgotten.


End file.
